


Just One Look

by taylorgibbs



Category: NCIS
Genre: F/M, gaficathon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-16
Updated: 2011-04-16
Packaged: 2017-10-18 04:12:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylorgibbs/pseuds/taylorgibbs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With just one look, Gibbs is attracted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just One Look

Playing a little with the NCIS timelines to suit my purpose here, though we don’t have a clear idea of exactly when Abby joined NCIS or when Gibbs’ marriages and divorces occurred. For the purposes of this story, he and Stephanie returned from Moscow a few months ago and their divorce has come through. I’m also playing with the fact that the real NCIS doesn’t actually have many businesses around the Navy Yard.

April, 1999

Gibbs was tired, stressed, and cranky. They’d just wrapped up the case of Melony Vole, one that had hit them hard. When abused children were involved, the team took a case to heart. Little Lisa Vole was in the hospital, injured and frightened, but expected to survive. Petty Officer Melony, and her husband Victor, wouldn’t see freedom for a long damn time.

Gibbs couldn’t shake the image of Lisa curled up in her grandmother’s arms, bruised and whimpering. A part of Gibbs longed to go home and take his frustration on his boat and numb himself with some bourbon, but he still had to get through their reports and Burley, Pacci, and Langer were taking their own sweet time with them.

Suddenly, Gibbs realized he’d had had enough. He glared over at Chris Pacci, nodding once toward the other man’s keyboard. Pacci, as senior agent, was at least pretending to be interested in what Langer had to say. His fingers weren’t even on the keyboard.

Stan Burley was rubbing his stomach again, his face pale, a sheen of sweat slowly drying on his brow. Another panic attack; Gibbs knew the signs, though he didn’t know what had triggered this one. Brent Langer was using his three-dollar words to explain Melony’s motives, not that they could be easily understood. What possessed a woman to burn her child as an act of discipline?

Tuning his agents out was almost too easy. They were driving him crazy today. It wouldn’t last; Gibbs knew that he’d have a new team soon enough. Stan had applied for an Agent Afloat position last year and had been knocked back, but Director Morrow had seen something in him and Gibbs knew it was just a matter of time before he was gone. And Brent…he’d been talking with both the FBI and NSA about positions that would further his career in a way NCIS wasn’t. It was supposed to be a secret, Gibbs knew, but he made it a point to be informed about the happenings of his team.

He’d have to quietly ask Morrow for some more agent files. It was getting to be routine. Since Gibbs had taken over the Major Case Response Team, members had rotated in and out, most of them leaving just before Gibbs pink slipped them. Chris had been with him a couple of years, and was often on loan from other departments when Gibbs needed him. Brent had been with him for eight months, and Stan the longest at four years.

“And then she obfuscated the evidentiary customs and…”

That was it, Gibbs had to get out of here! “Coffee,” he muttered, surging to his feet and striding out of the bullpen, hand rubbing the back of his neck almost raw. Chris would probably want to join him, but even he had to know Gibbs was feeling too frustrated and angry right now to deal with him. And Pacci was the team member who annoyed him the least. Typically. It was the damned case getting under Gibbs’s skin, the heartbreaking sounds of a little girl’s emotional pain merging with the memories of his own little girl and the realization that he hadn’t been there when she’d needed him the most. Now, it was the team irritating already frayed nerves.

A light rain was falling as Gibbs jogged toward the front gates of the Navy Yard and out into the streets. His favorite coffee shop was only a block or two away, and he weaved around people in uniform and civilians until he reached the door. The rain—typical April showers in DC—was little more than a mist dampening his hair, and he reflexively smoothed it down, even though he knew his high and tight cut didn’t allow for much messiness.

He walked in and stood behind a few customers, glancing around the room reflexively. His sniper senses were always on high alert and he eyed the customers in line, his eyes sweeping over them. Middle-aged professionals in nondescript neutral shades of blue, tan, gray, and black. Non-descript, though Gibbs knew terrorists and threats came in all shapes and sizes.

Gibbs stepped up to the barista, placed his order, and paid, moving off to the side and taking in the customers seated at tables. There were a couple of Navy men sipping coffee or munching on sandwiches, and a bunch of civilians, but there was one person who stood out. There was something about the tilt of her head and her pale skin that caught his eyes. The woman’s glossy black hair was pulled off her face and cascaded down her back. He thought he saw some kind of marking on her neck. He didn’t have a side view of her face and couldn’t tell much about her body yet, but he was intrigued. There was something about her that stood out from the normal crowd here.

He took his coffee automatically and slipped a cardboard sleeve around it, walking to a vacant table one over from hers. Gibbs tried to act casual, fixing his eyes at a point over her shoulder and casually angling his chair as he took a better look at her.

She was younger than the rest of the patrons; he estimated that she was probably mid twenties. He let himself glance her way before tearing his gaze away. Eye color seemed to be light, but he couldn’t be sure if they were hazel, or blue, or green. She was studying a book, her head down, eyes focused on the print. Hair, glossy black, shiny, drawn back in a low ponytail that she kept fiddling with.

 

She wiggled every so often in her chair, tugging on the hem of the black suit she was wearing. He wasn’t sure if she was uncomfortable or just jittery, and the big cup of something called Caf-Pow she was sipping had caused her to have a jolt of energy.

Then she angled her head even more, her lips curving around the straw in a sensual motion. She smiled around it, emitting a happy little sound, and sucked—hard. Gibbs’ gut clenched and did a slow flip, and he swallowed hard, unable to tear his eyes away.

Her head snapped up and he could hear her muttering, her hand coming up to rub her neck where…Gibbs swallowed hard, zeroing in on the tracery of thin lines he could see against her skin. She had a spiderweb tattooed there.

Seeing his opening, he leaned in. “Did it hurt?” he asked.

“Huh?” The woman’s head snapped up, and Gibbs caught his breath as her clear green eyes met his. Her gaze sharpened as she assessed him, darkly colored lips curving up in a sexy smile. She narrowed her eyes in confusion and Gibbs pointed to her neck, repeating his question. Before she answered, she made a point of licking her lips, a small drop of the soda clinging to the plumpness of her lower lip.

“Maybe. You want some ink, Sailor?”

“Marine,” he shot back, giving her a flirtatious little smile.

She eyed him, winking. “Mmm. You don’t look the tattoo type.” Her husky alto that walked a fine line between interest and desire momentarily rattled him, and he gulped down a scalding swallow of coffee before he answered.

“Don’t know me. Can’t know what I’m like. I don’t have a type.”

“True,” she replied, giving him a wink and wrinkling her nose. “But I’m good. You’re divorced, federal worker, you probably have a house in Arlington or Alexandria and you ride a desk all day.” Her eyes flickered over him and he noticed her focusing on his badge. “Or most of it,” she added.

Gibbs hand ran over his finger where he knew a strip of skin was lighter than the rest, where his wedding ring had sat until his recent divorce—number three. Damn, she was good. She’d nailed a lot about him after assessing him only seconds. He wished his agents were that good with details.

“Observant,” he commented, standing and looming over her for a second before motioning to the empty chair across from her. “New here? Sure I would have seen that ink before.” She was younger and less world weary than most of the people in the coffee shop, or at least that was the image she was projecting.

She watched him as he sat down across from her and didn’t stop him when he lifted her book up, reading the title. “Dead Men Do Tell Tales: The Strange and Fascinating Cases of a Forensic Anthropologist.” He smirked then, eyeing her in a different way, assessing her. She could be a work colleague some day, and that would be…interesting. He couldn’t imagine her mixing with Ducky…and whatever agents were on his team. “Heard we were interviewing for a new forensic tech.”

“You did? Ohmigod the job is still open? I thought this was a pity interview, like the FBI, and Metro. Why would the feds want me? Look at me! Oh, I better brush up on my interview skills. You know, I look like funeral Barbie here and I hate this suit and…” She rubbed her neck, trailing off. Her face reddened and she took a long sip of her drink, hands trembling slightly. Her lips hugged that straw in a way that seemed almost indecent. Gibbs gulped down another swallow of coffee. He couldn’t keep up with this change in mood, but she continued to intrigue the hell out of him.

This was bad—really bad. But he couldn’t quite stop himself from helping her out. There was something very appealing about her, and he wanted to know more. The last thing he needed was the complication of a potential work colleague he was attracted to. She was far younger than the women who were usually his type—and she wasn’t a redhead—but there was something about the spark in her eyes and her knowing smile that he couldn’t ignore. And despite being damned unlucky in love, he was becoming more interested by the moment.

Squashing the little voice inside him that was screaming about unprofessionalism and Rule Twelve, Gibbs leaned in. “The way you need to approach Morrow is—“

The scream from the counter and the customers startled him, and he reflexively grabbed his gun, gesturing the woman to the ground with a sharp motion of his hand. He whirled around, sensing her dropping to the ground as he moved into a defensive position.

“Federal agent, drop your weapon!” A young man—a kid—was standing threateningly at the counter, his own weapon drawn. His eyes were wild and he was vibrating, bouncing from foot to foot. Drugs, Gibbs catalogued, filing that away, mentally sifting through the best technique to defuse the situation. The kid was a newcomer, someone Gibbs hadn’t seen before, someone who must have come in when he was talking with the woman.

“Cheryl, give me the damn money!” he yelled into the scared barista’s face, waving the gun around.

“Put. The gun. Down.” Gibbs spoke every word very precisely, lowering his voice in tone and injecting every bit of steel. Gibbs tracked the slow and easy motions of Marines just out of the kid’s view. All he had to do was keep the kid’s attention away from the men moving in, and this would end peacefully.

“I don’t want any problems, man. I just need—“ The kid stiffened, swinging the barrel at Gibbs, firing twice as two men in uniform tackled him. Gibbs felt a slight tear and burn on his forearm, but he didn’t lower his weapon until he was sure the Marines had the kid secured.

The woman’s hands surrounded his arm and she whispered soothing words, easing him into a chair. He couldn’t hear anything over the rush of blood in his ears, but he allowed her to press a napkin against his arm, to hover over him, even to stroke a hand over his hair. When the adrenaline finally drained away, he squeezed her hand with his.

“Wait here,” Gibbs told the woman, whose eyes were wide. She bit her lip and nodded and Gibbs cuffed the suspect. Since he was injured, even slightly, NCIS needed to be involved. Gibbs called Pacci and Stan and had them come down to work with Metro and fill their own reports. It took over an hour to get the scene secured, even though Metro took the lead, with NCIS just there as a formality. Gibbs was exhausted, his coffee only half finished, the adrenaline high during the takedown giving way to exhaustion, the burning of his arm a constant reminder.

Gibbs figured the woman had left in the chaos of securing the scene. He was surprised when he turned and saw her sitting at a table. Her snowy white shirt was bright red, and he winced. The mark was too dark to be her soda, and Gibbs looked down at his arm, wincing. His blood. He’d bled all over her, probably when she was helping stanch the bloodflow. He glanced down at his arm, a couple of napkins wrapped around a flesh wound that had finally stopped bleeding. Ducky would take care of patching him up when Gibbs got back to NCIS. It was a minor wound, and he knew it.

He crossed the room, dropping into the empty chair at her table. He eyed her, carefully, pleased with what he saw. She was rattled, but she hadn’t fallen apart that he’d seen. “You okay?” She nodded and he paused, but when she didn’t say anything else, he knew he had to continue. “Hell of a first meeting, sharing bodily fluids.” He wasn’t good with women and wasn’t a great joker, but she smiled, even if it did seem a little sickly, her face a little too pale.

“That was intense and you went all superhero and I don’t even know your name,” she replied, fidgeting. She sucked more soda through her straw and Gibbs couldn’t stop staring at her face. Despite all that happened, he was interested in knowing more about her.

“Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs,” he said, nodding to her.

“Abby Sciuto.” She leaned in and impulsively kissed his cheek. “Not like I’m going to see you again,” she said with a small chuckle, motioning to her shirt. “Not interview ready now, and anyway, nobody would let me leave and it started fifteen minutes ago.”

Gibbs hated the idea that he might not see her again and put up a finger, stepping away and dialing Morrow. He could get Abby’s interview rescheduled at least.

 

Two weeks later

Gibbs was deep in after arrest reports at his desk when someone cleared his throat. He looked up at the director and stood, glancing to the side. His heart skipped a beat when he recognized Abby from the coffee shop. It wasn’t as if he’d been able to get her out of his mind, but seeing her in the flesh still startled him. She was dressed in a way too short skirt and platform boots that looked like they belonged in the seventies. Her hair was in pigtails today and she was in a plaid pleated skirt and a white blouse, her eyes sparkling.

“Jethro, I’d like you to meet our new forensic technician, Abigail Sciuto. Abigail, this is—“

“I know who he is,” she said, giving Morrow a cheeky smile. “He saved me! Hi, Gibbs! Can you believe it? They hired me!” She came around his desk and gave him an impulsive hug. “And its all thanks to you! We’re going to be great friends.”

And maybe more, Gibbs silently added, his arms coming around her. He kissed her cheek gently, breathing in her scent, and realized he was in a whole world of trouble with this woman.


End file.
